


Regret

by magicalcookie664



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Crying, Hugging, I cried writing this, I wrote this for my teacher, Kissing, Lots of Angst, Moriarty is confused, Pain, Whump, but he tries his best, my poor baby sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:26:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21573877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicalcookie664/pseuds/magicalcookie664
Summary: John dies, Sherlock breaks, Moriarty doesn't know what to do but he's there when John can't be. John dies, yeah I know, I'm crying too. He's my literal fav character it hurt so much to write this.Credit to my friend Sophie for the prompt.This is for my Latin teacher who loves Sherlock as much as I do.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	Regret

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not very happy with this but I'm not usually happy with anything I post so what's new. XD I'm new to the fandom so excuse errors. I don't think I wrote Moriarty right. Also I'm working on more chapters to add :)

John remains standing for a few moments, swaying unsteadily on his feet, eyes as wide as saucers, his mouth shaped as if he's gasping, though there is no sound. The he slumps to the ground, limbs tangled within limbs as he crashes into a boneless heap on the pavement.

Lestrade's by his side in an instant, fingers fumbling against the white skin of his wrist for a pulse. "Sherlock, help me," he demands, voice half way between commanding and pleading.

John is bleeding out. Sherlock knows what he has to do. He has to stop the blood.. call 999... and.. move. Just move, you idiot, he thinks. But he can't. He's stuck in position, riveted to the spot, feet glued to the ground as his entire body goes utterly numb with shock. This can't be happening.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaims, panicked, his trembling fingers slipping as he presses his own coat against the wound just above John's heart. He's trying to stop the crimson, but it won't stop. It won't. It soaks through the fabric, seeping out everywhere, pooling onto the pavement like an ink spill on paper. John's eyes are drifting closed as the colour slowly drains out of his face.

Sherlock can't move. Time seems to dilate. It glitches, flickering between on and off as if it can't quite decide which one it likes more. His vision blurs and white noise fills his ears, buzzing around his head, bouncing off of every wall it comes across and sending pain vibrating through his skull. Nothing feels real. Sometimes reality hides within the imaginary when it takes a little pity on you.

Someone has dealt with their attacker - John's attacker - not that it matters anyways. Sherlock can't tell who it was; he's beyond caring at the point and it feels strange. Somehow he manages to move, manages to retrieve his phone from his pocket in trembling fingers and dial three numbers. His hands feel like they belong to someone else. "John," he manages, sliding down to the wet pavement beside his dying friend. Every movement takes millenia to complete, as it plays out, encapsulated within this terrible little glitch of time.

Lestrade begins to talk on the phone - Sherlock's phone. He can't remember letting go of it. He just stares down at John, his vision blurring and clearing, blurring and clearing, Something wet slides down his cheek. It feels alien, but so does the entire situation.

"Sherl.." John gasps, his arm weakly outstretched towards him, mixing with the dirt.

"An ambulance is on it's way, just hold on," Lestrade announces. His voice sounds far off, distant, as if it's coming from a different life, a different reality, one where everything is okay. The polar opposite to this.

Sherlock reaches towards John's hand, his fingers tightly curling around those of his best friend. As if he could pull him back from death using merely his strength. He opens his mouth to speak but he doesn't know what to say. He doesn't understand, he doesn't understand.

The Great Sherlock Holmes doesn't know what to do; the world is going to burn. He blinks, and tears cloud his vision. John's face becomes a fuzzy pearly white blob in front of him. His fingers slide around his friend's wrist, thumb pressed against his pulse, willing it to keep going, willing him to stay alive. "Just a little longer, John.. I promise it will all be okay.." he whispers, as silent tears slowly soak his cheeks.

John blinks too, his half closed eyes locking blearily with Sherlock's. "I'm.. sorry.." He whispers, and a single tear slides down his pale face, beading at his jawline without dripping away.

Please. No. John can't die, he can't. Sherlock isn't finished with him yet, isn't finished with their friendship. Neither is John himself. Neither of them have a choice. In the end, what happens happens and it can't be undone.

Sherlock's covered in his best friend and only friend's blood. It's smeared across his palms, soaking into his knees. He's kneeling in it, the wet hot pool of crimson slowly growing cold. He glances back at John. His eyes are closed, mouth slightly open as if he's about to speak. He never will again. His wrist lies limp in Sherlock's hold and there is no pulse. All of the breath disappears from Sherlock's lungs.

Children are told that death is like sleeping. A pretty notion, isn't it? Like, one day you fall asleep and just never wake up again. You can dream for eternity. peaceful, right? It would be, if it were true. The truth is, death is unknown, unknowable. No one who has died can come back and tell others what it was like.When John was younger, he'd had a lot of time to think about it. The war gave him reason for that, always the chance he may go out to fight one day and never return. He'd come to terms with it, the noble death, dying in order to save others. A life for a life. He'd been lucky.. many times.. now he's out of luck.

Now, years later, John Watson lies on the side of a private road, his blood painting the pavement red, and slowly dies. He's surprised. In the end, he dies beside his best friend, Sherlock's beautiful voice lulling him to sleep. The pain just fades away as if it never was. His eyes feel heavy, so he closes them. The sound of Sherlock speaking to him gradually quietens and blackness submerges him, blackness upon blackness upon blackness, tugging hm under. He can no longer feel his hands, or his legs, or this thoughts. It all just drains away, every single unique quality that makes him him fades away until it no longer exits. Until John Watson is no more than a picture in someones head, a memory, a story, a few words on a page. Until he's gone.

~

Sherlock stands by the side of the road and watches the ambulance take his best friend away. He knows it's too late. There's no coming back from this. There's no coming back from this. He stares at the dark empty road and swallows down a sob. He's Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't cry, shouldn't cry.

"Sherlock..." Lestrade begins, tentative,"It's okay to cr-"

"Leave me alone," He snaps, before turning on his heel and beginning to run. He doesn't know where he's going. He's just going away, far away. Anything to stop him from hurting so much. Anything at all.

*

Sherlock won't talk to anyone, not even his own brother (in his defence, he rarely did anyways). He severed all contact with the outside world months ago, moving to live within his homeless network. He's practically one of them now, another broken soul cast out to the outskirts of the city like a piece of trash. No one can find him. He outsmarts them all, weaving his long tired lines across Britain, slowly fading into the background. He's barely recognisable as the same person. He's just a shell, a shell running on autopilot because he's almost lost all hope. He hides away where no one know his name.

Sherlock tugs the old sleeping bag tighter around himself, shivering slightly. It's November. Cold, weeks away from Christmas and eternities away from peace. Christmas, that used to mean something, didn't it? He shuffles through the dewy grass, eyes downcast. It’s around 11pm, and the moon is out, no clouds to obscure it form view tonight. He finds a secret beauty in the simple things, like the moonlight, the way it basks the gravestones in its pale white glow. 

He reaches John’s grave, and kneels down in front of it, not caring that his sleeping back is getting wet. He can always put it in front of the fire to dry it later. He closes his eyes, blinking back tears, and begins to speak, his voice barely a whisper. In the midst of the silent dead, it’s as loud as a shout. “I’m sorry, John. It’s my fault.. everything, my fault. I..” he swallows, vision blurring,”I got ahead of myself. I continuously put you in danger when you didn’t have to be. I was so confused, John. So confused and so stupid and so lonely. And you..” he chuckles, wiping tears from his cheeks,”You saved me, John Watson. I never understood how you could be friends will me.. even best friends.. but I loved it and I love you..” He sighs, shivering again, tears steadily dripping down his cheeks. He takes a shaky breath before continuing,”People don’t like me, but you did - do - god.. I can’t believe.. you’re.. gone. I.. I don’t have friends.. but I had you and it scared me so much because I’d never been so happy before in my life. You don’t deserve what I did to you, John. I’m so sorry.. “ He bites his lip, pushing back tears as much as he can. “I miss you,” he whispers, not even a whisper, but he’s sure that somewhere, somewhere, John can hear him. 

~ 

Six months pass before Sherlock admits that he needs help. He can’t beat one more lonely night, one more miserable day without someone, anyone to talk to. He has to speak with someone, desperately needs to spill his pain out all over the floor for someone to fix. John would’ve been great at that, fixing Sherlock. He always found a way to make him smile, even if it was only on the inside. But he’s gone. He’s gone and there is no coming back. Mycroft is not an option, and he doesn’t feel close enough to Lestrade anyone to confide in him. It suddenly crosses his mind that he has no one, utterly no one at all. Except-

I. O. U. 

The thought causes chills to creep across his skin like a thousand little spiders. He might get killed finding Moriarty, but at this point he no longer cares. 

It takes him tow days to find Jim Moriarty. It would’ve taken one, but he’s a little out of practice what with the whole remaining-in-hiding thing. When he reaches the dilapidated building it occurs to him that he has no clue what he is going to say. He just has to talk it out with someone, so here he is. 

The building used to be a hospital of some sort, judging by the cracked sight posts beside all of the doors and the crude peeling white pint. He enters the room of what used to be an operating theatre, long left to fall part. It reminds him of himself, abandoned by society and hope, thrust aside into the abyss to slowly crumble apart. 

“Sherlock,” a voice calls out, causing him to stiffen, the slightest but peeved. “What do you want? To kill me I presume,” Moriarty questions, stepping into the light, his face all shadows and dark lines. He chuckles to himself in the odd way that only he can perfect. 

Sherlock opens his mouth, meaning to say ‘no’, meaning to form some sort of coherent sentence. Nothing comes out. He just stands there, frozen, mouth agape like a stupid fish. He’s never felt so foolish. What was he expecting, really, from Moriarty of all people? They aren’t exactly friends. But then again, he doesn’t have many of those. 

Moriarty sighs, barely concealed confusion tweaking his expression. He looks rather bored. “Well? Make it quick. I haven’t got all day,” he says lazily, the words rolling off of his tongue. He retrieves his own gun from where its been haphazardly thrust into his pocket. 

A few seconds pass of utter silence and then, then, Sherlock breaks. Every single shred of pent up emotion clustered within him bursts free, showering his down through his mind like imaginary confetti. He squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to force it back, but it’s too late. His legs give out and he crashes to the floor, sobs tearing themselves from his lips. He presses his palms agains his eyes, blocking out his vision. He’s done. He’s totally and utterly done with pretending to be okay, with hiding, with holding his emotions inside of himself as if they are his prisoners. He’s so sick of hurting, but he doesn’t know how to make it stop. 

For a moment, Moriarty stands there, gun in hand, utterly shocked. He never expected any of.. well.. this. Sherlock is confiding in him, he realises with a jolt. Sherlock is trusting him with this. He doesn’t know what to do. Who should he? 

He crouched down beside Sherlock, uncertainty coursing through his veins as well as blood, having left the gun behind a few moments prior. He tentatively touched a hand to the broken man’s shoulder, awkwardness evident. “I..I don’t know what I can do, Sherlock. Uh- what do you need?” Is he supposed to ask that? It sounds mildly sexual in nature, but that doesn’t matter at the moment. He’s never done this before: comforted someone. It’s a new experience for the both of them. Trust. 

Sherlock only sobs, curling in on himself as he shakes like a terrified child. Even if he could manage to speak he wouldn’t know what to say. It just hurts, everywhere, like he’s burning from the inside out. How can he begin to explain it? 

Moriarty frowns, concern winding it’s way into his expression despite everything trying to drive the two of them apart. He carefully wraps his arms around Sherlock and brings the other man into his chest, resting his head on his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, just holds the detective in his embrace with no intention of ever letting go. 

Sherlock buries his face in Moriarty’s cheat, weakly clutching and fisting his shirt. He’s not ordinary, yet here he is, doing what ordinary people do, feeling pain like ordinary people feel. He doesn’t like it, feeling ordinary. It stings like a slap across the face. “But it is what it is,” his own words echo throughout his head, ricocheting off of every possible wall within his brain. The words repeat over and over again until they begin to mock him. A lifetime ago, he held John as he cried and spoke these words to him in help of quenching the painful fire within at least a little bit. His own words are haunting him, his past becoming a ghost constantly hovering over his shoulder, all of his mistakes visible to the world. 

They remain like this for minutes, or hours, or days. It’s impossible to tell which. Time seems to have cracked into millions of shards, each broken fragment revolving around entirely different rules from the one before. Pocket-size eternities slide past behind his closed eyelids before he finally manages to speak. “He’s gone,” he whispers, a few stray tears leaking out of his eyes, leaving wet patches in Moriarty’s shirt,”John’s dead and it’s entirely my fault,”

“Everyone dies eventually, Sherlock,” Moriarty replies, his tone uncertain,”I don’t know how to help you.. but, I’m sorry. You should have had more time,” Everyone should have. 

Sherlock nods, swallowing, slowly lifting his head from the other man’s chest to look in in the eyes. Directly in the eyes. 

They hold their gaze, neither blinking or looking away. Something invisible and wispy passes between them, a thin barely tangible sting of careful trust. 

“I’m glad you didn’t come here to kill me. Killing you would’ve sucked,” Moriarty announces, the closest thing to affection he can produce. Not murdering you. 

Sherlock frowns, breaking eye contact abruptly, deciding suddenly that he floor is far more interesting to look at that Moriarty’s face. “For you or for me?” He questions, voice quiet, as if he’s unsure whether he wants it to be heard. 

Moriarty grins, his teeth glinting,”Me,” he replies, his eyes remaining on Sherlock, barely blinking. 

The detective looks up slowly at that, suddenly realising how close they are. Moriarty’s fingers are looped in Sherlock’s belt, deliberately tugging at the fabric like he’s trying to pull them even close together. They’re merely inches apart now, eyes locked in an unwavering gaze. Their noses are practically touching, they are so close. And then-

Their lips brush, just for a second, the most tender and fleeting kiss in the history of kisses. 

A tear beads in the corner of Sherlock’s eye, before dripping down his cheek. 

Moriarty brushes it away with his thumb. “Don’t cry, Sherlock. You look prettier when you’re happy,” he whispers. 

He almost smiles. Almost, but it’s a start.

**Author's Note:**

> sghdhsg. yeah.


End file.
